


Lanterns Lit

by brasspetal



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous!Flint, Jealousy, Love Triangle, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Self-Hatred, Silver's ableism, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, eventual Captain Flint/John Silver/Thomas Hamilton, eventual confessions, some nonlinear storytelling, takes place mostly from s3 through s4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 21:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13466769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasspetal/pseuds/brasspetal
Summary: What begins as a fling between Silver and Flint after taking the Spanish Warship escalates into a painful journey of unrequited love, betrayal and wandering broken hearts.





	1. That Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellel/gifts).



> This fic is going to span mostly through the time between S2 and S3 to the end of S4 with flashbacks to S2. It's a retelling of Black Sails but hopefully refreshing enough for you to enjoy. This fic will eventually be Silverflinthamilton but it's pretty far off so I didn't want to tag it just yet. 
> 
> The tags/characters will change and add as the story progresses. 
> 
> Thank you so much to @ellelan for the discussions of headcanons for this!
> 
> The first chapter begins right after the season two finale.

 

_'I am losing you to the sea_

_But your ghost I will gladly bear'_

 

 

\--

 

The cold settles differently in this cradle of wood. This ship houses vines their hearts have been wrapped in. It isn’t without its thorns; this pact with the sea. The Walrus is the birth of all things, of the quiet descent, of unabated misery. This place holds John Silver’s beginnings.

The breeze greets his face softly and dances strands of his hair across the bridge of his nose. It’s a small mercy; the cool night air against his clammy skin. He closes his eyes, parting his lips to banish the agony that claims him. He’s in its thrall.

He sits with his back against the wall beneath the railing. His leg and boot are stretched out in front of him like a cruel reminder of the token he’s gifted the ship. It asked for his blood and he delivered.  He knows that it will ask more of him until there is simply nothing left to give.

He presses his hand to his chest, spreading his fingers over the pounding erratic beat of his heart.

It’s still there. He’s _still_ breathing.

The incessant throbbing from his severed leg is enough to pull a scream from him but he holds back. He presses his lips together and shuts his eyes tight against it. He will not be its prisoner. He will not be owned in this way. His pain cannot—

He whimpers loudly and despises the weakness that’s been afforded to him.

Dr. Howell advised him that he should wait to put the boot on, but he was exhausted with hiding himself away. He’s the quartermaster for fuck's sake.

He shouldn’t have gone out to the quarterdeck. He knows with a sickening dread that he will not be able to stand, and the pain will only crescendo. He needs to remove the boot to relieve some of the pressure, but he isn’t about to present himself so bare. They’d all see that he is something lesser, they’d all know that they’ve been fooled.

He leans his head back against the wood, licking his dry lips before staring up at the fading stars. He knows the origin of his descent into this dark and it hadn’t been the moment he lost his leg. It was much further back than that to a night like this one when the sky was fearful of releasing the stars. His failure of avoiding that memory is part of the weight that buckles his shoulders. He wants to tear that part of himself out and give it to the sea. What use was it to him now besides adding to the torment?

He releases a small shaky bitter sigh, his lips twitching as he sets his hand gently on his thigh.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

\--

**Before**

**\--**

_That Night_

It’s the purest deep midnight when the sun is long asleep.

Silver thinks one can see reflections in such darkness materialize like figments.

He leans against the creaky banister on the quarterdeck looking out beyond the darkened sea, there are no other lights to be seen on the horizon. Flint is still standing beside him, quiet and contemplative.  The soft murmuring from the crew below provides a comfortable backdrop even if tensions are high.

“We just stole a fucking warship, I say that’s cause for celebrating?” Silver announces cheerily but he’s more in a telling mood because he stands promptly and walks towards the stairs.

“What exactly are you implying?” Flint inquires with that squint he does when he’s irritated. The pinched expression fades slightly from his features.

“I suspect you do partake in the drinking of rum now and again, Captain?” Silver ventures with a sly smile and crosses his arms.

A loud gaggle of laughter erupts from down below but not enough to catch either of their attention away from the other. The moment is strained at best and pulls at them both like the dark sea below.

“I’m not your Captain anymore,” Flint corrects and subtly assesses him.

Silver sighs before rephrasing his question, “Might I suggest we-“

“Fine,” Flint interrupts.

Silver quirks a brow in surprise and rests his hand on the railing to the stairs. “I shall get the rum.”

Flint glares at him tiredly without saying a word. He pushes past him down the stairs to head for the Captain’s cabin. Silver watches after him as the beginnings of his smile fades. He isn’t sure exactly what this game is now that they are on the same side of things. Perhaps, he wants to make sure they stay on the same side.

Dufresne is busy conversing with the crew, indulging in his new-found popularity. Silver shrugs and swipes a half-empty bottle from atop one of the apple barrels. It’ll do just fine.

He’d never admit it, but the strange nervousness he feels in Flint’s presence isn’t something he’s been able to shake. He’s attempted it by lying to himself, by pretending but it hasn’t abated yet.

Right now, Silver couldn’t care less about this ship or the crew. In fact, this bottle of rum is the only thing he gave a damn about, but of course, that is in part another lie. What is one more lie?  He can spin them in his head like a web connecting from one point of his skull to another and he’d start to believe them himself.

He opens the door to the Captain’s cabin without a knock and Flint stands inside with his hand resting against his beard, interrupted from one of his usual brooding trances. Silver shuts the door with his foot and pops the cork out of the bottle before taking a swig.

“It tastes like piss,” Silver concludes with a wide grin and passes Flint the bottle. He grips it slowly, keeping his eyes on Silver as if he’s suspicious of his friendliness and Silver can't blame him. It isn’t as if this is a ruse, however. In truth, Silver is unsure of what this is himself.

“I was thinking-“ Flint begins and Silver snatches the bottle from him in interruption with a noise of disapproval.

“What does Captain Flint do for pleasure?” Silver asks instead before taking another slow swig. His eyes watch Flint from beneath his lashes.

Flint grumpily questions, “Why is it you care?”

“I don’t, just passing the time with company,” Silver pivots on his boot before bending down to study the vast book collection. The binds are free of dust and well taken care of.

“Don’t touch those,” Flint reprimands gruffly.

“They aren’t yours, not yet at any rate,” Silver mocks and runs his fingers lightly over the titles presented to him in the dim candlelight. He can hear the liquid slosh when Flint takes another swig and Silver pulls a book free from its prison.

He opens the old cover and slides his fingers over the crisp pages before he reads a passage:

“When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?” Silver dramatically delivers, holding the spine of the book in the palm of his hand as he nears Flint.

“Leave the book be,” Flint protests but his words lack conviction, he’s watching Silver with a growing inebriated curiosity.

Silver continues animated with the lift of his index finger, “Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender to dreams, this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness…”

He meets Flint’s eyes, venturing close into the Captain’s space. Their boots are inches apart and Flint’s eyes search his with a vulnerability that catches Silver off guard. He swallows softly and Flint briefly snaps his eyes to his Adam’s apple to observe the movement of his throat.

“…and the maddest of all…to see life as it is, and not as it should be,” Silver softly says and dares to look into those hooded eyes that observe him. He hadn’t any idea what he was doing but the magnetic pull that radiated like warmth from his Captain isn’t an easy thing to decipher.

He expects a grumpy response that suggests that Silver take his leave but instead Flint blinks hazily at him and asks, “How did you become so well read?”

He steps away from Silver as the heat leaves him and sits on his cot taking another small drink. He’ll finish the whole bottle if he wasn’t careful.

“You do realize I brought that in for us to share it,” Silver admonishes, avoiding the question.

“Then come and take it,” Flint adds and Silver can tell the words were meant to snap but they sound too coy to be grumpy.

He narrows his eyes at Flint, still holding the book open. He was inviting Silver to sit on the bed with him and his heart trips over itself in an erratic rhythm, one he can’t quite find the explanation for. All these new mysteries are being pulled from him in the span of a moment.  

Silver slowly walks over to the cot and peers down at the book to read further:

“My desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens…” Silver takes a breath and then slowly sits beside Flint who he seems to have the rapt attention of.

“…steps by which the soul travels to its primeval abode.” He shuts the book with a snap, the smile that grows on his face is shakier than he’d like. Flint holds the bottle out to him and Silver drinks the rest, his head swimming with thoughts of the heat next to him.

They are sitting in this dim light, their thoughts each their own maelstrom that’s quieted here to a hum. Silver can’t look away from those eyes, they have him trapped like a lighthouse guiding him in. 

“You have a motive here that I’ve not found yet.” Flint surmises falsely and Silver shakes his head keeping a teasing grin on his lips. 

“You know my motive, the gold.” Silver repeats, tilting his head to bear his neck and it feels like a lie. The residue of those words rests heavy in his throat.

“Why are you here with me now?” Flint asks as his eyes travel the length of his exposed collarbone and Silver moves his face closer to his, testing to see if Flint backs away first.

Silver is no stranger to seducing all manner of men to get what he wants but he’s rarely done such an act for pleasure and is that what this is? Has he conceded that this night of all nights is but a simple reprieve?

“I want us to remain on the same side,” Silver replies and he knows it isn’t the right answer for Flint because he inches his face away. Flint doesn’t want a dubious pact and it surprises Silver that he seems to care more than he thought he did.

“I suggest you leave,” Flint speaks quietly and he watches his face twitch with indecision.

“You suggest? But is that what you want?” Silver ponders aloud bravely confident. This is dangerous, unlike anything he’s attempted. He’s provoking a lion to leap.

“What do you want from this moment?” Flint frames the same question within a new phrase and there’s a hint of anticipation.

He’s staring at Silver the same way he did when he held a knife to his throat after stealing the postman’s whistle. He recognizes the doubt beneath the bravado.

“You’re adding far too much complexity to my motivations I’m afraid,” Silver answers and Flint’s features harden.

“You should leave,” Flint replies hollow, back to that once again. As if this is a form of tug of war between them.

“You,” Silver breathes, “in this moment that is what I want.”

That is a truth that he lets loose. He’d be lying to himself if he hasn’t thought about Flint in such a way even after their first meeting. He put away the attraction to use for later as if it was meant to be a trick up his sleeve but instead it pulled at him. It weighed him down.

Then the moment he saved him from the depths of the sea he wished to experiment with it further. Even if it twisted his resolve but he wished then to strengthen their partnership.

Was he still lying to himself? Is there something beyond momentary want? If so, then he’s burying it like everything else. He’s made a graveyard already inside his skull, what’s one more?

Flint is projecting suspicion but he’s inched closer again without the will to leave his space. He’s searching for a lie and Silver had no more to give in the present moment. He leans forward and Flint leans back with a flinch. Their faces remain a breath apart and Flint’s eyes are wildly searching his. He wants to dig into his thoughts. He wants to use a spade and unearth the buried honesty but there is none. All Flint would find would be more stories unable to tell which is truth or fiction.

Silver moves forward again and softly presses a chaste hesitant kiss to Flint’s warm lips to test the barriers. How far can he press them until he pushes back? He isn’t afraid of retaliation for the boldness now. He is just as in tune with the attraction as Silver is.

Flint blinks at him as a challenge to attempt again and Silver is more than willing to take it. He closes the distance once more to place another soft kiss on his lips.

Silver pulls back and waits in that small breadth of space between them before Flint roughly closes the distance after an eternity of breathing, immediately slotting his lips with Silver’s.

\--

**Present**

\--

The rain suffocates in its downpour and the ship is teetering, letting small waves of seawater loose over Silver’s form. He’s soaked, his hair is sticking to his cheeks and he’s shivering. He can’t move, he can’t stand. He’s trapped in agony and he doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here.

“What are you doing out here?” Billy’s voice is loud from the stairs over the downpour and Silver flinches at the sound of it.

He swallows thickly and attempts to weakly dismiss the concern. “I needed the fresh air.”

Billy’s boots stomp carefully across the slick slosh towards him.

“Jesus...you look like hell,” He admits, “how long have you been out here?”

 Silver blinks up at the towering shadow that hovers over him and releases a trembling breath, “I’m fine, Billy.”

“I’ll get Dr. Howell.”

Billy quickly turns to head for the stairs and Silver reaches out with his right hand to grip pathetically onto the material of his pant leg.

“Don’t…tell him anything,” Silver pleads and he hates the way his tone betrays his crumbling strength.

Billy glances down at him, his jaw working in indecision and Silver knows he isn’t judged by those features.

“You need a doctor,” Billy insists, and Silver shakes his head; resolute.

“You’re…going to help me stand,” Silver instructs and he swallows against the anguish hiding beneath his tongue.

“Then we will get Dr. Howell,” Billy retorts.

He feels offended suddenly by the concern. Concern he didn’t wish to receive from Billy Bones of all people.

Silver snarls at him, “Then leave. I don’t need your fucking help.” 

Billy is unaffected by his hostility and he holds his palm out to Silver. Again, without judgment.

The throbbing is excruciating and he flinches before gripping his thigh. He doesn’t know why but sometimes putting pressure above the knee can grant him enough of a window that he can bear it without releasing a howl.  

“Just go…please go,” Silver whispers as a tear escapes his eyelash. His eyes are wet from the residual sting of it.

“Take my hand,” Billy offers, and Silver shakes his head stubbornly.

“Leave,” Silver breathes and closes his eyes, shutting them tight against the lightning above.  

Billy kneels beside him with a squint and says, “put your arm over my shoulder.”

Silver feels the sweat collect at the back of his neck and he blinks hazily at Billy with an attempted bitter huff, “What? Are you to carry me?”

Billy speaks loudly over a crack of thunder, “Silver…the men don’t care. What you’ve done for them…. they’re your brothers.”

He leaves the answer to silence as he studies Billy’s eyes in the dark. The rain blurs his vision and he parts his lips to find momentary relief.

He swallows his protest when Billy confidently reaches forward and wraps his bear of an arm over his shoulder.

“Ready?” He asks and Silver takes a long moment watching the lightning reveal his missing leg. He nods slowly and then he pushes himself up with a cringe; Billy taking the rest of the weight. He pulls at Billy’s shirt as the sharp slice of pain releases a cry from his lips and they stumble for a moment in the downpour.

Billy stands patiently keeping him upright like a solid wall to lean on and he releases his fingers from the material bunching at Billy’s shoulder. His arm is wrapped tightly around him and Billy moves in close when thunder cracks apart the silence, “ready for the stairs?”

Silver nods quickly and refrains from whimpering when they begin their slow walk along the slippery deck beneath them. Billy slides for a moment but maintains their balance before gripping onto the railing. He squints at Silver against him as rain streams down their cheeks and they take it one step at a time.

The boot is unbearable, it’s lodged itself in his skin and he feels as if he’s being ripped open with each sway but he doesn’t relent.

“Last one,” Billy calls and then they nearly stumble from the violent wind.

Silver reaches for the nearest rope to help guide them and Billy pulls them towards the stairs leading to the crew quarters.

“More fucking stairs,” Silver sighs and he knows Billy is unable to hear his voice over the raging storm.

He visited the quarterdeck earlier when his leg hadn’t been irritated and he was able to feign some sort of new gait from his old one.

Now, his leg is on fire and he groans when they begin their descent. The ship rocks and the side of Silver’s head presses against Billy’s shoulder for a moment. He feels as though his skin could come apart and be carried away in this wind.

“Ready, Silver?” Billy pushes.

He isn’t ready but he forces himself forward and Billy grips him firmly. He keeps him from falling and they reach the bottom of the stairs as the seawater splashes across them in a fit of fury.

It’s a little quieter down below. The thunder is a muffled rumble and he can’t suppress his pained breath but Billy makes no note of it.

He doesn’t ask him again about Dr. Howell.

Silver observes the turn of Billy’s neck and his eyes as he searches for any crewmembers because he knew it makes Silver uncomfortable to be seen this way, he understood.

He guides him to a more secluded path beyond the food storage rooms and Silver couldn’t be more grateful.

His hammock rests against the wall where the room opens up to the sleeping men before them and Billy slowly helps him slump down into the uncomfortable material. Silver releases a soft huff of relief and glances up at Billy to give him a nod, unable to form the words to thank him.

Billy understands that too, he didn’t need to speak. He nods back and replies, “I’ll brief you on the crew tomorrow.”

He watches him leave, teetering against the rope as the ship rocks them with the restless wind and Silver lies back; the pressure now off of his leg. He knows he needs to check what damage the boot has done but he didn’t have any strength left to move or to care.  

Instead, he brings his mind back to something that still holds many shattered pieces of himself.

That night again, the night with Captain Flint, when all the world was preoccupied. When there was nothing but warmth and a yearning for a future they were on the edge of.

\--

**Before**

\--

_That Night_

Piles of clothes rested tattered on the floor beneath the cot and the room was enveloped with unintelligible panting.

Silver was surprised by the care Flint put into his movements, to the slow glide into the burn. He was pulling soft whispered moans from Silver like careful worship.

He was inside of him, pressing in deep but achingly slow. Silver was lying on his back beneath him, his bare legs wrapped around Flint, skin to skin.

Their eyes met and wouldn’t leave the other. He remembers seeing the tenderness there beneath the green, beneath the heady arousal. Flint had rested his hand on Silver’s face as his thrusts captured him entirely. The feel of him, all around him was utterly overwhelming.

Flint’s tongue had glided deliberately slow into his mouth, swallowing Silver’s panting with his own. He had sucked on his lip; their teeth clashing from a hybrid of gentle roughness.

Then he remembers that Flint had pulled back, breaking their kiss apart to hold his eyes once more.

Flint’s fingers slid softly below his abdomen, beneath a new tremble in his skin and with a caress wrapped his fingers around Silver’s cock.

The pumping rhythm of his palm matched his thrusts and he watched Silver’s face, his eyes roaming over his lips when he parts them, to his eyes which were slipping shut as if he wished to see him fall apart.

Silver remembers Flint’s mouth opening over his throat when he released, coming into his hand with a series of soft cries that followed after.

He remembers opening his eyes hazily as Flint snapped his hips and he wanted to be consumed but he couldn’t speak of it. He couldn’t claim what this moment was to him and what it would come to mean to him, that it would haunt him, collapse him.

The moment when Flint came inside of him he didn’t take his eyes off Silver and he saw everything for a moment burst bright like a vision. He saw _James_ , open to him like a temporary door into sunlight.

He was reaching for the door, reaching for the opening before it slammed shut between them.

It was that glimpse that tormented him and what had been given to him, to be taken away.

He remembers Flint pulling out of him and that door suddenly slamming shut.

He remembers the cleanup and the coldness afterward when Flint wouldn’t look at him again as if his presence offended him.

Silver had wished to stay a little longer, to lie with him. He didn’t ask but he wished for it all the same. But what would that have done?

He was after the gold then wasn’t he? It was supposed to be a release of tension between them but the bowstring remained pulled taut.

“I think you should leave,” Flint had said and there was nothing behind his voice to read or Silver to prod at in feigned mockery.

“Already, Captain?” Silver asked coyly to hide the constricting of his chest from the dismissal.

Silver reached out to touch Flint’s bare thigh and he moved away to dress himself.

“Dufresne will be retiring to this cabin soon,” Flint adds and Silver sits up, eyeing his torn Spanish coat on the floor. That had been Flint’s doing in their rush to touch the other's skin.

“I don’t much care if Dufresne needs his cabin back,” Silver comments, the shaky bitterness is evident in his tone.

Flint slips his boots on and tucks his shirt in messily. “We are not to speak of this again,” He warns.

_‘Again.’_

The finality of the statement wasn’t lost on Silver. The admittance that this was, in fact, one night to be forgotten had forced his feet to the floor.

He dressed in silence, his back turned to Flint on the verge of saying something but never arriving. He studied the messy cot with the blanket twisted as he pulled his boots on. The emptiness that remained there was a premonition. The door shut to silence behind him.

Silver turned around to find he was alone in the large cabin, their time together nothing but a smudge in their timeline.

\--

**Present**

\--

Their timeline runs like lines on his palm, permeant, and ever-present.  

What Flint had taken from him that night was never returned and Silver has searched for it once again in the time of pretending; pretending to be nothing but Flint’s errand boy, his invisible partner.

He thinks there had been rumors back then of the two of them fucking but it has long since died. The rumors grew old and forgotten amongst the clucking tongues of their crew.

Silver lie there on his cot, now, half a man in his eyes with nothing but a future tied to this ship. He'd sink here with the Walrus and her crew. He'd leave his own bones to the vastness of this wretched sea. 

 


	2. The Terror

There are moments before waking when he forgets who he is.

For that time, he is in a void, unafraid of the darkness and unaware of the lonely entity one might call anguish.

Until there is a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. He’s pulled from blissful nothingness back into his broken awareness and the pain is ever-present. He blinks at the blurry figure above him that waves their hand in front of his face.

“Silver…” The figure says and he sits up with a grimace.

Muldoon comes into focus from the flickering light and he crosses his arms, studying him. He looks like a ghost; imagined.

“You look like hell, my friend. I ain’t above sleepin’ in but Howell asked that I get ya,” Muldoon comments and Silver attempts a tired smile that doesn’t quite form on his lips.

“Thank you..” Silver replies and moves his leg off of the cot as he grips his thigh tightly.

“Wouldn’t thank me. You looked peaceful, dreamin’ about somethin’ nice?” He asks and he has a genuine smile on his face.

Muldoon, the others, have all been exceptionally kind to him since he lost his leg and he hated it. He hated that he’s now perceived different because there is a weakness in that; in the knowing.

“Nothing. I was dreaming of nothing,” Silver replies observing that he still had the boot strapped on. He hadn’t taken it off last night because of the exhaustion and he knew he’d pay for it.

“Nothin’ ain’t bad,” Muldoon states and Silver knows he’s hanging around the cot in case he needs help.

“I’ll see you up top,” Silver says, dismissing the aid entirely.

“Billy said-“

Silver snaps, “I don’t give a shit what Billy said, I’m fine.”

His fingers dig into the material of his leg as he shuts his eyes against the wave of agony headed his way. He did need help to stand but he isn’t going to accept it or ask for it.

“Up top, Silver,” Muldoon replies as he leaves him to his grumpiness.

His eyes are watering from the effort of schooling his expression. If he was alone then he’d scream until all there were, were echoes.

He grips the dangling rope above him, pressing his lips together tightly and pulls himself up with a low keen between gritted teeth. The pain is indescribable. Darkness begins to eat away his vision and he nearly loses consciousness. He breathes, forcing himself forward as he grips onto the rope beneath his arm and holds it against his armpit until he reaches the doorway to where Howell spends his time.

“I heard you used the boot,” Howell says with his back turned to him, organizing a small table of parchment.

Silver grips the rope snaking inside and limps to one of the barrels to sit down on and relieve the pressure. When he doesn’t answer, Howell turns around to study him and irritation bunches his features, “Christ…you’re still using it. Take it off.”

Silver shakily unbuckles the straps. He inhales deeply before he pulls it from his skin, eliciting an unintended yell. He’s dripping blood on the floor and sweat is collecting on his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“The healing is set back, you’ll have to use a temporary crutch,” Howell observes and kneels in front of him to examine the damage.

“No crutch,” Silver rasps desperately.

“Mr. Silver, it is either the crutch or a bed. There is no alternative,” Howell replies perturbed.

Silver knows he’s given up his choice to be free of the sea, to be free of _him_. He’s trapped here for however long forever lasts.

\--

**Before**

\--

An old tune looms into the night from a whistle. He remembers the humid breeze that night. He doesn’t know why it’s clung to his memory but it remains.

Silver stands by the lip of the ship, staring down into the dark water below and he thinks it’d be easy to fall into that void. He’d never do it, what would be the point? But he wonders where he’d go this night if he were to leap.

Silver doesn’t have a death wish but he thinks the water has something say.  He wonders if many listen but most pretend to.

They were on the journey back to Nassau with their captured Warship. Flint has recently gained his captaincy back and the men act like nothing ever changed. They drink, laugh loudly, some sing but the tune is always off. Silver thinks he recognizes it but he doesn’t want to dig and remember from where, from when.

Flint and Silver have spoken plenty but they haven’t talked about _that night._ It rests in the background in everything. It rattles around in his skull to remind him of that glimpse before the door shut. The brilliance of such a short moment, like reaching for the sun before falling back into the dark water below. 

“That man will kill us all. I hope you know that.” Dufresne’s monotone voice grates on his nerves.

Silver turns from gazing at the sea and gives him a shark-like smile in return.

“Oh, I’m not worried, Dufresne but if I were you it’d be a different story but I’m perfectly comfortable with the state of things,” Silver replies confidently cheery.

“There’s been talk amongst the men about you and Captain Flint,” Dufresne cocks his head in dark amusement. He’s studying Silver behind his beady eyes.

“Well, you’ll have to be more specific I’m afraid,” Silver challenges him.

“He seems to favor you now, and I’d be careful, Mr. Silver. Mr. Gates meant more to him than you ever could and look what happened. It’s a shame,” Dufresne maintained stoicism and his glasses reflect the moon.

Something dark, as if snatched from the water, lurks beneath Silver’s skin.

“As I said, I’m not worried,” Silver’s smile widens and they stand there in a limbo of silence.

He wishes idly that he could somehow toss Dufresne overboard and he doubts anyone would truly mind but he lacks interest in the violence of it. He lets the thought entertain him and disappear before he steps away.

He spots the Captain on the quarterdeck, the silhouette of his leather jacket sways in the night wind and Silver presses his lips together in indecision.

He’s not much for hesitating but he always does in the presence of Captain Flint. It’s kept him awake at night pondering over ridiculous imaginings.

He steps up the stairs to that prolific figure and Flint has the usual military stance with his hands behind his back, surveying the dark as if he’s the guardian of the night sea.

“What are you looking at?” Silver asks.

“Nassau,” Flint replies pointedly and Silver squints in the dark.

“Well, I don’t—” Silver begins and Flint interrupts, “I want you to accompany me to shore when we arrive.”

Silver moves up beside him and chances a glance at his shadowed face. Flint doesn’t meet his eyes, he keeps staring beyond into that space above the sea.

“I need you to purchase rations for the crew, I will give you a list of what is needed,” Flint replies and he doesn’t appear cold, only contemplative.

“I’ll brief the crew then,” Silver agrees and rests his palms on the edge of the wooden rail.

There’s an awkward moment of silence where Silver attempts to peer at Flint from the corner of his eye.

“You did well gaining the favor of the crew, I didn’t expect success,” Flint admits oddly.

“…thank you, if I’m being honest I didn’t think it would work either,” Silver adds and squints at Flint when he notices a small smile, “you’re smiling.”

“I’ve regained my captaincy,” Flint supplies as if that’s the reason why and he watches as the smile naturally fades.

“These men are terrified of you,” Silver truthfully relays and Flint slides his eyes to the railing, his features twitch slightly.

“But not you,” he says almost with a question.

Silver opens his mouth to speak but before he can release a word, Flint interrupts, “goodnight, Mr. Silver.”

Then he’s walking away, towards the stairs and he listens for his boots as they disappear.

The door has shut again between them. It was inevitable. He wonders if he will just grow further away from it as time wore on.

He makes his way down below to the galley where Randall hobbles nervously around a pot of boiling stew. The tables are empty and most of the crew is up top.

“Randall,” Silver states with a smile in greeting.

“I don’t like him,” Randall articulates. Silver glances around at the empty Galley with the lift of his brow.

“Who? You’ll have to be specific.”

Randall immediately repeats, “I don’t like him.”

“Randall, who don’t you like?” Silver attempts and watches Randall’s eyes narrow in thought.

“Askin’ questions,” Randall pinches his features in disgust and Silver sighs, “Was it Dufresne?”

Randall nods quickly and then adds, “bout you and the Captain.”

Silver doesn’t know why he’s surprised but the admission churned his stomach. He doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t want to hold a truth; the burden of _him_. He’s stumbling over his own thoughts.

“I don’t like him,” Randall repeats again before moving to stir the soup.

\--

**Present**

\--

The crutch that Howell gave him is small and flimsy. He fears it will snap easily but he doesn’t have much of a choice.

He glares at the steps and collapses forward onto the railing, whimpering quietly and forcing his crutch ahead.

It’s raining outside, enough to soak his hair as he lifts his stubbled chin to the sky, letting the raindrops kiss his skin. He’d have a beard before long and he’d look the part, a part he isn’t playing any longer but one that he’s molded into permanently.

He rested in Flint’s quarters for a week and a half before he finally attempted the boot and found himself stranded on the quarterdeck. He was foolish to think things would go back to their original order. He knows Flint’s destructive grief is only beginning.

He limps from beside the stairs towards the Captain’s quarters steering clear of the main deck lest anyone spot him. He’s discovered that in the short agonizing time he’s spent with the boot, he doesn’t want the crew to see him without it.

He didn’t bother to knock, he pushes the door open to the catch the attention of both Billy and Flint who are hunched over the desk examining a wrinkled map.

Flint turns back not bothering with any greeting and traces his finger over the page. He looks thinner, his cheeks are gaunt and his head is shaved.

Billy nods at him, eyeing his crutch before turning his attention back to the map.

“I know you don’t _agree_ , but I don’t care. It’s quicker if we flank from the bay,” Flint instructs and steps back to rest his hand on his chin.

“Captain, it’s safer for the men if we-“ Billy begins softly.

Flint interrupts, “I don’t care.”

Silver switches his eyes between them and watches Billy’s jaw clench, restraining the words he wishes to speak.

“I’m no tactician but I am the quartermaster. If it’s safer for the men not to follow in the bay then I suggest we go with Billy’s alternative,” Silver chimes in smoothly.

“We go in through the bay by nightfall tomorrow,” Flint orders and Silver huffs a bitter laugh.

They were indulging him in his violence. Silver knew this but he doesn’t have much love for the settlements Flint is planning to assault. Those settlements display and hang their kind for amusement without consideration.

But Silver knows that his thirst for revenge will only spread like wildfire.

The door shuts leaving Silver and Flint in the Captain’s cabin alone but Silver might as well be a ghost. Flint leans over his desk without a word and the silence grates on him because he knows the weight that rests inside it.

“How many of these raids are you going to do?” Silver asks and watches Flint attempt to occupy himself. He’s good at ignoring anyone that he doesn’t deem worthy to speak with.

“As many as there are necessary and if they won’t listen…if they continue to hang pirates in their squares then they will answer to me,” Flint replies darkly.

“To us…you mean,” Silver corrects.

He doesn’t answer and Silver limps from the room, stepping out into the windy rain. Billy is there, standing beside the doorway with his arms crossed, squinting towards the main deck.

“You’ll tell the men the risk and ask for volunteers. Most of them have been eager to step back on land,” Billy informs and Silver shuts his eyes, facing away from him. A wave of throbbing pain is inching its way up his thigh.

“You saw Howell,” Billy states, inviting more conversation and his tone lacks the stoicism it had a moment ago. The irritation he normally feels towards concern from the crew is less so in this moment. 

He looks out to the men scurrying through the drizzle and says, “as you can see I’m bound to this piece of wood.”

“I know you take issue with it, Silver but the men don’t care,” Billy repeats from before.

“Why?” Silver asks and pivots on the crutch to face him, “all of you treat me as though I could shatter. All I see is pity, as I see in your eyes now.”

“Some of the men don’t know how to react—” Billy stops when Silver holds up his hand to him.

“I’m not Randall. I am not in need of defense or protection,” Silver supplies weakly.

“What I am saying is, the men don’t know how to react to what you’ve done for them. The sacrifice you’ve made. They don’t pity you, they respect you and look up to you,” Billy admits, blinking at him in the half shadow. A splash of sideways rain rushes over them from a gusty gale.

“I never thought I’d hear those words from your mouth,” Silver says and wipes a wet strand of hair away from his cheek.

He can see a shadow of a smile on Billy’s lips and Silver adds, “it’s fucking terrifying.”

Billy moves his eyes away from him and says, “You’re important to the men.”

Silver wants to counter it with a defensive response but he doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he changes the subject back to their Captain, “this raid will be the beginning of many.”

“It’ll be important that you keep the men informed. They will likely tire of it before he does,” Billy says and the ship groans under their feet.

“You’re going on this raid then?” Silver asks even though he knows the answer and Billy nods without a response. He’s yet to meet Silver’s eyes again and they stand there in a stilled silence.

They’ve become the ship, in its thrust and pull, it is beneath their skin like a splinter.

\--

There are flames lapping at the horizon.

Silver watches them blink and terrorize, staining the sky with black smoke. He can hear the roar of it from where he stands and he imagines screams.

The raid has begun and he peers across the water to the town that is ablaze. The beast that is Captain Flint has claimed it in his fury. He can hear the rumors now; the whispers.

He stumbles with a moan unable to stand any longer and rests on one of the empty apple barrels. He sets his crutch beside him and presses his palm to his thigh.

He feels dizzy, disoriented as if he’s somehow stepped out of the world and is watching it from afar.

Something is wrong. He feels shaky, disconnected. Had it been blood loss?

He rests his trembling palm to his forehead and it’s like touching a furnace. His skin is on fire much like the backdrop behind him.

He attempts to push himself up from the barrel with a grunt but tumbles helplessly to the ground. The crutch slides away from him out of reach, mocking him to crawl towards it.

He rolls onto his back to witness the dark veil of smoke begin to meet their ship above.

It’s mythical in its hate.

He blinks and then Muldoon’s concerned face comes into focus above him. He’s blocking the smoke from view and he speaks to Silver but he can’t hear his voice.

Everything is far away, muted, closing away to darkness.

\--

**Before**

\--

Silver remembers the conflict with the fort, with Vane, with Billy. He remembers lining all the wildcards up in a row inside his head and thinking of ways to tap and tumble them apart.

He remembers thinking that the night he spent with Flint meant nothing. He remembers convincing himself that there was no door to Flint only a wall. That he was given an illusion not a glimpse into the truth.

He started to believe it like any lie he tells himself. The repetition is the key and then after that, it becomes apart of him, a story without an origin.

 _That night_ was only a release, nothing more. That night didn’t leave invisible imprints on his wrists or echo false revelations.

There was no door.

_‘Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter?’_

Words that brought back the dust he’s swept beneath the lie.

He gives his speech, convincing the men to cling to another unknown fate and they listen, nodding their heads in a trance.

He remembers that same night when Billy banished Dufresne and his band of betrayers. Betrayers like him, he thought. A man who lies to his captain and his crew. A big enough lie to flip the game in his favor but he wondered then why he felt misplaced by it.

He remembers waiting on the ship as he watched Abigail Ashe with her wide eyes and porcelain skin board it. Behind her was Mrs. Barlow, wearing equally confining attire but the way her eyes scanned the crew, he could already tell there were layers. There were doors to her too that matched the walls within Flint. They shared something beyond companionship, something dark, something nameless, something that intrigued him greatly.

He spent the next day observing with Vincent as his shadow.

“What do you make of her?” Silver was asking himself more than the man beside him.

Vincent leaned in as if the information was vital, “who?”

“Mrs. Barlow,” Silver replied and kept his eyes where she sits in the sunlight next to Abigail who scribbled in her journal.

Vincent shrugged, “no idea.”

He wasn’t expecting much of an analysis but it bothered him then. She seemed like an anomaly. A vital piece of Flint’s puzzle he’s yet to unlock.  

He remembers the night after Nicholas’ death, standing like a perpetual statue over the dark sea. He caught sight of someone in the corner of his eye.

He’s surprised to see Mrs. Barlow beside him in a beige dress, her hair pulled back into a wrapped braid. She looked out to sea with a small smile on her face without fear.

“Good evening,” he greeted politely.

Her eyes found his and it was like suddenly bearing his inner workings. It caught him off guard how much her dark eyes seek and find. It was as though she could hear his thoughts before he spoke them. Such a notion should be terrifying but there was a calmness there; a comfort.

“I noticed you observing, Mr. Silver,” She bluntly admitted.

He thought he was being subtle but the thought that plagues him the most was how she knew his name. Had Flint spoken of him? Or had she simply asked one of the crew?

“I was curious,” Silver replied and she nodded at him, still holding that confident smile.

“About Captain Flint? I can imagine that I would possess the same curiosity if I were in your position,” She said and the warmth of her tone set him off balance.

He remembers feeling found out as the nervousness set beneath his feigned calm. It was as though she knew just by looking at him the secrets that he carried. That she somehow knew about the gold, although a ridiculous notion but maddening all the same.  

“He’s a mystery and you are the outlier, I’m intrigued,” Silver confessed because there is no point in denying it. She could ferret out his fibs.

She turned back to the sea, her movement comprised of graceful ease and she said softly, “One must find a way to release the hold history has on us.”

She looked melancholy, distant and lost in thought. He wondered if she somehow could see beyond the dread of the inevitable. There was a dark acceptance below the surface as if she understood the fate of this journey.

It haunted him. That look. Her demeanor. Silver has yet to feel the release from the claw of it.

\--

**Present**

\--

The waking is always difficult. There is no sense of things. It is as if he is slipping out of one world and into another.

When his eyes open and the blur has cleared, he can hear the muffled familiar voice of Howell grumbling in the background. Above him is a figure that comes into focus when they step closer.

It’s Billy, still wearing the dark turban on his head but his face has been unwrapped and exposed.

“Silver, can you hear me?” He asks and he sounds as though he’s underwater.

“The raid…” is all Silver can manage.

Billy rests his hand on his shoulder and he instinctively leans into it. He feels as though he’s melting away from the pressure in his head.

“You’ve a fever. Get some rest,” Billy suggests and from the muted haunted appearance of his face Silver knows they lost men. The path from the bay had been reckless and he let Flint dictate it without much argument, claiming lives.

“I can’t rest, I’ve rested long enough,” Silver stubbornly protests and attempts to sit up only to be rewarded with a disorienting headache that throbs and pulls at his skin. Billy rests his palms on both of his shoulders to push him back to the bed.

“There is nothing to be done. I’ll speak to the men on your behalf,” Billy replies and it’s oddly soft. He wants to hate the delicacy of the statement but he lacked that sentiment.  

“He needs to rest,” Howell replies sternly.

He watches Billy glance away and pull back. The tightness of his fingers on Silver’s shoulders evaporating.

“The captain…” Silver rasps and swallows thickly.

Billy steps back ready to leave the room and replies, “he’s fine,” before disappearing.

He feels trapped in this broken burning body as if he’s lying on a pyre, waiting for the flames to finally reach him.

“You need to rest,” Howell says from behind him.

“I can’t do this,” Silver replies weakly. Everything feels unfocused, as though something has been taken from his sight and replaced with something he doesn’t recognize. This world but different.

“You don’t have a choice,” Howell corrects.

He shuts his eyes against the dim light, away from this, away from them all.

Silver believed in a myriad of choices that he used to gather to him but now he’s become the living breathing consequence.

That is the terror of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing some world building of my own. I hope you don't mind :) the next will be some hurt/comfort. I hope you are enjoying it!


	3. Gentler Than Atlas

In that foggy embankment of distant thought, he imagines being silently wrapped in a thin cloth and slid overboard to rest beneath the sea.

What kind of peace would that afford him?

Silver’s voice is ragged from breathing against a wooden stick between his teeth through the pain.

The infection is like the fires they dot the horizon with. It is a slow immolation.

“You could die, Mr. Silver. I suggest you—”

“No,” Silver interrupts through gritted teeth. He’ll not succumb to an opium haze.

“You are far too fucking stubborn,” Howell replies, angrily and promptly leaves the room.

There is a new awareness born out of such agony. One that makes the senses keener, and allows chaos inside the shut windows of his mind.

He attempts to occupy himself with memories, which is a game of cat and mouse with nightmares but he plays it anyway.

He thinks of _her_. The door. The key.

\--

**Before**

\--

They’d be arriving in Charles Town tomorrow and the nervousness amongst the men is palpable. It’s as if they could conjure a storm with their collective dread.

Silver eyes Vincent who approaches him carefully as if he’s trying not to wake a sleeping giant.

“I’m to head to galley _alone_ ,” Silver insists because he’s grown weary of Vincent shadowing him as if he’s always awaiting instructions.

Vincent nods at him signifying he understood and Silver leaves him, heading for the stairs below deck. He knows around this time most of the crew doesn’t venture into the galley and he’d get his moment of peace to eat and stare into the void of his choosing.

Stepping into the galley, however, he realizes that out of the many empty tables, there sits one in the center occupied. Occupied by Mrs. Barlow.

She’s sipping tea quietly, her back is to him and it feels as though he is entering her home as if she has invited him in. He cautiously approaches her but he knows she isn’t the type to jump at all manner of shadows.

She peers over at him with the usual comfortable grace and says, “I find a calmness in the creaking wood.”

“It doesn’t hold much for me,” Silver replies with a smile as he moves to sit across from her. He rests his fingers on the wooden table and she nods at him while sipping her tea between her palms. He takes her silent invitation and sits on the bench.

Her eyes meet his, unflinching and she sets the cup in front of her with hardly a sound.

“I used to have an aversion to the sea too. It removes agency from you and sends you in retreat to another shore but through time I think I’ve come to an understanding of it,” She says and rests her hands in her lap.

“There is a danger there because it makes you believe that you’ve understood it, when in fact it reflects what it wishes to,” Silver admits and he feels exposed by it as if he’s confessing to all things at once.

She leans forward, reaching for the cup again and says, “I believe our own understanding of it is all that matters regardless of its true purpose.” 

He knew her in the deep dark, between the dirt and root of his ribs. It’s as if they’ve spoken of this before many times in a circle of years.

His memory holds images of a dress catching the mud and swooshing in front of his eyes. He remembers a hand on his shoulder with delicate relief. How old had he been? Or was that another lie? Had he been weaving this woman into his history already?

“James mentioned you were quite talkative but I’ve yet to witness it,” She comments as if to lift the veil that’s settled over them.

Flint had spoken of him which shouldn’t add a ring of thought to his skull but it did.

Silver releases a small laugh, “Something tells me that any story I attempt to spin you would find the truth of it anyway.”

He’s lost the words as if they lacked the proper meaning.

She smiles softly, “Well, it is the telling that matters, Mr. Silver. Why don’t you tell me one?”

She sits back while smoothing out her dress and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Silver maintains his sly smile and opens his mouth on a word before the silence settles in. She waits patiently, watching him with a quiet kindness.

“I once knew a boy named Solomon Little…”

\--

**Present**

\--

“Silver…”

A soft familiar voice lingers in that space in between.

“Silver..”

He opens his eyes out of memory and sees Billy’s shadowed face above his. The concern in his expression abates and he calls, “he’s awake.”

“It’s good to know he isn’t dead…” Howell deadpans from out of sight.

He may not have found the underworld but he felt hollowed out like a husk.

“He should eat,” Billy lectures Howell.

“She had a feeling…” Silver comments, drawing Billy’s attention to him and he hovers over his face, studying his features.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Barlow. She had a feeling how things would end,” Silver manages and tries to push himself up on a cry.

“Jesus…” Billy rests his hand against his chest to keep him still. There isn’t confusion on his face this time there’s something Silver once thought was pity but he isn’t sure any longer. It pulls at Billy’s eyes at the corners and his mouth becomes tight. He thinks he holds a sorrow for this, for him. 

It twists something inside him beyond the anguish. It’s a fishermen’s knot between his throat and his ribs.

“You need to eat something,” Billy suggests and Silver observes his face cataloging the quiet demanding tone.

“I’ll try,” Silver concedes quietly.

He watches Billy disappear from sight, off to fetch him hot soup and he lets the failure fester like a new wound. He’s better than this, better than his pain. What does his suffering mean if he gives into it? Lets it make him weak?

Is this all he is now?

He releases a small whimper and leans his head back against the pillow.

“You are lucky that you live. Your pride over that boot could have been the death of you,” Howell recites angrily.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Silver comments and Howell sighs without answering.

He lets the image of Mrs. Barlow linger and the dance with fate. She had seen beyond the blade to something else, beyond the sharp squint of his eyes. They hadn’t known each other well but in his own way, Silver is grieving too. It’s as though she held the Earth in balance, gentler than Atlas, only with her fingers. Then when she died, everything careened into grey oblivion. Their Captain most of all.

Howell leaves the room as Billy steps back inside, shutting the door softly behind him as if the noise could provoke more screaming. Had everyone heard his anguish on the deck?

Silver attempts to sit up and cringes through the movement. He grits his teeth and holds out a shaking hand for the bowl. He passes it to him and Silver almost drops it. Billy glances at him once more before he turns to leave.

“Stay…” Silver nearly whispers and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he just doesn’t want to be alone with his wretched thoughts.

Billy complies, pressing his lips together in an understanding nod before crossing his arms and sitting in a nearby creaky chair.

Silver slowly lifts the spoon to his lips and breathes through the oncoming wave of pain. The spoon falls back into the bowl with a plop.

“Silver, there is no shame in—” Billy begins softly and Silver hates it. This thing that rests in the room with every conversation he has.

He interrupts, “No.”

“This is about surviving. Those men out there need you and you need them. Their your brothers now whether you wish for it or not,” Billy replies and Silver shakes his head. The bowl is trembling in his hands.

“I can’t do this, not this. Not anymore,” Silver pleads to the darkness, the one that lies dormant. Billy stands from the chair and moves to hover over him. He gently pulls the bowl out of Silver’s hands and says, “Nothing will leave this room, you have my word.”

Silver’s expression collapses and a tear glides down the corner of his eye to meet his lip.

He watches through the blurry wetness as Billy dips the spoon in the soup and holds it out to his mouth. He closes his eyes tight at first, working his jaw.

“Silver…” Billy pushes and Silver blinks open his eyes, holding Billy in his gaze.

“This means nothing, you’re ill, in pain, you’d do the same for me,” Billy continues with an irritating newfound kindness.

Silver scoffs but slowly nods his head. He wants to get this over with.

Billy presses the spoon between his lips, letting the liquid fall onto his tongue and Silver swallows.

“You wouldn’t have done this before my leg,” Silver says and takes another slow sip of soup that is held out to him.

“What you did changed the men. You need to recognize the debt, the honor.”

“You’re indebted to me then?”

Billy holds out the spoon again to press against his tongue and says, “We all are.”

Silver turns his face away against the pillow and replies, “I don’t want it. Take back your debt.”

Billy sets the bowl down and leans against his cot. Silver watches the candle resting on Howell’s table of tools. The shadows are sharp, definable and they take shape across the wood reaching out to him.

“You’re punishing yourself. You think you deserve this,” Billy says bluntly and the truth of it cuts. He doesn’t know why he allows it to cut but he’s lost the strength to build another wall against it.

“She knew, Billy,” Silver comments lost in the flame of the candle.

“…who? Mrs. Barlow again?”

“Deep down she knew we were headed for hell and she couldn’t stop it,” Silver replies and he feels sweat collect at his temples.

“This isn’t hell, Silver. You’re alive despite your best efforts against yourself,” Billy says.

“You may not see it yet but you’ll know. One day you’ll know and be faced with clarity.”

Silver knows he isn’t making much sense. He’s been uprooted and torn to spill across the deck like the seawater.  

“We’re all trapped by _him_ ,” He continues and he can hear Billy’s soft sigh. They remain silent, their own monuments stuck perpetually in a loop of thought.

When he closes his eyes he can feel Billy’s presence linger like the candle he was entranced by. There’s a small moment when he feels his hand on his shoulder and then he’s gone.

\--

His dreams are cruel things and leave him in a half-sleep addled state between waking and nightmare. He’s yet to close his eyes to blissful nothingness since the infection began.

Silver wakes in the night in the middle of one of their raids. He knows this because of the smell of devouring fire. Billy leads the vanguard to destruction for their king.

Does he worry that neither of them will return? What would happen then?

The door creaks open and he spots Muldoon step inside with a wooden cup.

“Brought you some water,” he says sweetly and approaches his side of the bed through the darkness. There’s a soft glow to the room emanating from an unknown source. Silver reaches out to him and Muldoon pushes the cup into his fingers. He moves the lip of it to his mouth and tips it enough to wet his tongue.

“Thank you,“ he rasps.

“Billy said ya ate some. Wasn’t sure if ya needed soup,” Muldoon inquires and Silver nods while he takes another sip of water.

“I dreamt that the ship was on fire. The flames and the sea were at odds for who devoured first. I couldn’t move,” Silver recites.

“That ain’t gonna happen and if it did I wouldn’t let ya drown,” Muldoon reassures and Silver blinks at him with quiet regard.

He disliked his life being in anyone’s hands. He would be his own savior but Muldoon’s sentiment isn’t lost on him.

“How long has the vanguard been gone?” Silver questions because he needs something solid to grasp onto even with his head swimming in a cave of what ifs.

“Should be back soon. Signaled by lantern,” Muldoon answers.

Another settlement gone in Captain Flint’s name. He wonders how many ghosts they’ve collected amongst them.

There’s a muffled yell from outside of the door to signal that they’ve arrived back and Muldoon gently pats him on the shoulder with a strained smile before leaving the room. He listens beyond the door to the boots smacking the wood and the quiet conversation.

He doesn’t know how he can tell that, that is somehow Flint out there. He doesn’t understand why he knows the sound of his approach or retreat. He wonders if Flint’s become immortal through his grief.

\--

**Before**

\--

Did she know? How did she know?

It is something that’s haunted John Silver ever since.

He had watched Mrs. Barlow, Abigail and Flint get on the boat for Charles Town as if stepping into the jaw of an unknown beast. He suspected it would bite but none of them knew how yet.

The love that she carried within her brought her here and he didn’t understand why that mattered to him then. Why had he obsessed over it through the nights they spent on this ship?

Flint’s love was her love and such a thing couldn’t be replaced.

He imagined scenarios in which he told Flint that he didn’t need to be a shadow of her, that he wouldn’t stand against her. He imagined them in the glow of sleep where he saw Flint above him once again taking Silver’s face in his hands as if he is something to be cherished.

He hadn’t forgotten the burn of him, inside him, all around him.

He knew as they disappeared from sight towards the town that he could lose him to this place and it terrified him. It created new frayed edges within his skin.

Vincent was standing beside him watching the serene water oblivious to the maelstrom that rooted in his mind. It seemed loud in its madness and he couldn’t bring himself to quiet it because what then?

A world without Flint. The need to be free of Flint had always been a lie he spun for himself. He didn’t see beyond it until he watched them disappear into the hostile shore.

Mrs. Barlow knew. She saw it inside of him, a likeness that he had captured a piece of Flint before the shadows claimed the rest.

They stood shoulder to shoulder unable to step beyond the abyss and yet Silver didn’t understand why. There was a missing ingredient to Flint’s coldness, a purpose from his past that created a temporary bridge between Silver and Mrs. Barlow.

He saw him but only for a moment. He thought he had lost his mind recreating that night but the residual feeling of having captured something unknowingly remains. What does he do with the light?

“This ain’t gonna end well,” a crewman comments from behind him and Silver could sense the quiet storm looming out of sight.

\--

**Present**

\--

Silver sits at the edge of the cot listening to the silence beyond the door. The burning has abated for now and he is left with the usual torment beneath the torn skin.

He listens to the creaking wood stretch and wane beneath the sun.

They were putting another of them to rest outside, saying their quiet goodbyes to those they lost on the vanguard. Silver could attempt to gather his crutch and limp out into the brightness but he doesn’t move. He lingers in the in between.

He’s been ripped apart like parchment and left to glide down to a place below he’s yet to reach. He wonders how Mrs. Barlow met her end. He doesn’t dare ask Flint but he’s dreamt of it; a gunshot that rings out between spaces.

The door pushes open and Billy steps inside, shutting it softly behind him.

“Riley, Benjamin and Creedy have been given to the sea,” Billy announces sorrowfully and Silver nods.

He ponders the sea beneath them like the River Styx. They’ve only just begun their slow descent into madness.

Silver points to his crutch in the corner and Billy grabs it to hold it out to him. Silver reaches out gripping the wood with certain self-doubt. He’s developed a permanent disgust and it tightens his throat against wordless conclusions.

“Do you need help, Silver?” Billy asks and Silver is tempted to snap again but he refrains and he watches the surprise form in Billy’s expression.

Silver attempts with a low moan to stand with the support of the crutch and he falls back onto the cot once again. The crutch tumbles to the floor and when Silver tries to grab it he is unable to reach it.

He stops himself from nearly falling to the floor and that is when the tears are released from him like paper boats.

They aren’t silent things. He begins to sob against his shaking palms.

Someone knocks on the door and Billy calls a gruff, “Not now.” Before he hears the quiet sound of his boots slowly approach him.

Silver closes his eyes, letting the warm wetness cascade down his cheeks in rivulets. He doesn’t know who he is anymore and he despises what he’s becoming.

“I can’t be in this room any longer,” Silver says shakily.

He feels the palm of Billy’s hand rest on his shoulder and it fits like a puzzle piece.

“Silver…” Billy says softly and he’s saying _‘let me help you’_.

Silver reaches up to his arm, gripping the material he finds there and Billy gives him the crutch from the floor. He puts Silver’s arm snuggly over his shoulder blade.

“Ready?” He asks and Silver squeezes his eyes shut tight as Billy helps him stand from the cot.

The pain is a white-hot singe that claims his skin up his thigh to his hip. He releases a cry as his head presses into Billy’s solid shoulder.

“One step,” Billy encourages and Silver is grateful he doesn’t coddle him. He doesn’t ask if he wishes to lie back down because he would lose his goddamn mind if he did.

Silver rests the crutch beneath him as the burning evaporates like background noise and he breathes slowly through it. Billy keeps in step with him, not pushing or pulling either way.

Once the door is open they navigate through the cots until they reach his at the edge of the room. The candle is out and the shadows are reluctant to accept him. They both slowly sit on the edge of the cot as Billy carefully removes his arm from his shoulders. The warmth disappears with him and he’s staring at Billy beside him in a haze.

He can smell the sea air from above and it’s enough to breathe. Billy is studying his face as if he has something he wishes to say but he never does.

“I was going to betray you all,” Silver bluntly confesses and he feels the weight of it slither towards Billy, wrapping around his skull. He let him have a piece of him.

Silver lies back on the cot as Billy observes him with an unreadable expression but not one of disgust. It’s as if he’s unsurprised by the revelation.

“The gold. I planned it,” Silver continues and he didn’t give a damn if Billy decided to take it to Flint. He may get relief from it all out in the open and to finally be done, to shut his eyes against the cold midnight.

Billy reaches out resting his palm lightly on Silver’s chest and the pain seems to lessen from such a simple action. He’ll take a cut of his darkness and a wreath of his pain.

“You should rest,” Billy answers and there is that look again, not quite of pity but something else nameless. Not of the void but of the opposite. There is a kindness there.

“You knew…” Silver breathes in awe.

“You made your choice,” Billy replies wisely and Silver moves his fingers against the cot, tempted to place them over the palm that rests on his heart.

“Do what you wish with this information,” Silver resigns.

Billy’s palm leaves his chest, creating a small invisible hole in its wake. There’s a moment of clear unpolluted silence between them. A recognition. A pact.

“It’s your story to tell,” Billy replies and stands from the cot.

Silver observes the ceiling as he listens to the sound of those boots which he has also come to know. He listens to them walk up the creaking stairs into the day; carrying a piece of Silver’s darkness for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are liking this! They'll be some new povs up ahead as the story progresses! Thank you for reading :)


	4. The Pragmatist

He births new flames with the fling of his torch. He listens for the scream and the shattering of glass. He is their deliverer. They did this to themselves.

“Captain!” Billy calls from behind the smoke.

“Burn it all.”

Flint’s answer isn’t a new one but it doesn’t feel pried from his lips any longer. The order falls easily from his tongue.

He is a serpent silently slithering towards its prey before striking. Those men that lash out at him don’t stand a chance against his blade. He tears through them; collecting their plea on his skin. He will cultivate their fear in him.

A man steps out in his nightclothes to scream about the monstrosities and he fires his pistol sending him to the dirt.

Where was he when his _brethren_ swung?

That is another lie to mask the truth. Flint isn’t doing this for them. He never was.

He sees _her_ in every flame. She is every fallen corpse at his feet and every smoke-filled building. She is the scream and the silence.

“We lost Montgomery!” Billy yells and Flint doesn’t have an answer for him.

He might as well have been nameless. He didn’t see their faces any longer nor did he see his own.

Children scurry from their burning homes and he watches them seek shelter in the darkness away from the beast.

Dobbs slips on the slick mud while swinging his sword and a pistol is fired inches away from Flint’s head. He doesn’t flinch and stalks towards the man Dobbs was unable to kill and guts him where he stands. His body falls lifeless at his feet and Flint turns to sneer at Dobbs who lies in the mud looking up at him with a reserved fear.

“Captain..” Billy’s incessant voice prods.

“I want him replaced.”

Through the chaos, there is no clarity and he isn’t sure he seeks it any longer. There is no peace and no oar to turn into a shovel. The shovel is a sword and he will carry it in his palm until the soil claims him.

\--

**Before**

\--

_London_

He remembered the light in that place. It is almost crystalized now in memory. He had a smile for her and she had one for him. It was an easy exchange between the two of them like a currency.

“What do you make of the future, Lieutenant?” She had asked and he remembered being enamored by her open curiosity.

“That is a question with many implications and I wonder how you will judge mine? When I say that idealism is something that is warranted when building a new society but as long as it is in moderation. All things in moderation,” he answered with a warm grin and she nodded her head.

“You present yourself as a pragmatist because it is safer? People rarely view pragmatism as extreme or maddening but at once its weakness can lie in stagnation. So, beneath that cover is a spark of idealism, made up of moderation,” she reached inside him then with an ease that claimed him. She pulled his insides out and examined them but not in a cold clinical compacity but with compassion.

He remembered traveling with her around the city in the rain and the dew that nestled in her hair as if she is made up of the earth somehow. She wasn’t meant for the time she was born into. Although she didn’t let it confine her, she still belonged somewhere beyond the cage of society.

He had thought then, that it meant Nassau. He pictured her blooming in the sweltering day and Thomas’ voice ringing out a promise in the daylight.

These were ideals and he rarely had them but with the Hamiltons, they came swiftly. He dreamed of their paradise and began to believe that it could be made real by simply _believing_.

He knew she recognized the fury beneath his eyes even then before she got to know it intimately. She had reshaped him with her words and new perspectives.

“You’re a strange one. You keep things hidden but not out of embarrassment of what others may think but for your reasons I’m yet to figure out,” She puzzled over him in those off hours when the sun was playing hide and seek with the dark clouds. They had storms below and above. They were surrounded by wolves but he couldn’t see it yet.

She had seen it. She recognized them with their claws. The reality of it made him into a fool and the tumble of years like yolk from an egg. There was nothing to do but wait for the cracks but beyond the dread he had once hoped for decency.

She received his misery and he laid waste to the sea. His grief had been savage and only she could barely tame it with her words.

_“Do you recognize me?”_

\--

**Present**

\--

_‘You’re not welcome’_

Those words. That voice lingers and bounces around inside Silver’s skull like a loose coin. He can’t shake it free and his hands are trembling. His body is alight with the familiar agonizing burn and he must allow his lungs to expand. He feels like a traitor in pretending. Isn’t that what he is doing?

Pretending to take on the role of quartermaster? Playing a part?

Flint sees it clearly like a beacon.

Flint and his own destructive grief that is pulling them all down into the tide. Yet, he wishes to hear his thoughts no matter how cruel they are. He will take the cuts they present him because at least he hears him.

Is that what it has come down to? To be heard by his Captain in any form? What kind of pleasure is there from this torment?

He hears the soft-footed gait of Muldoon near him, “Silver…you all right?”

Silver turns to give him a feigned smile, “some rum might be nice.”

It’s a distraction and a petty one but he didn’t give a damn. They end up in the galley with a few other men lost in their own conversation and Muldoon sits across from him with that concerned look on his face. There’s a kindness in his features bordering on something beyond admiration. Silver isn’t oblivious to the open way in which Muldoon presents his care.

He takes a drink from the wooden cup and pinches his face at the harshness of it, “there is nothing to worry about.”

“Been hearin’ rumors,” Muldoon says before taking a drink of his own.

“About the Captain?”

Silver knows most of them and isn't interested in hearing them repeated but he listens anyway because it’s Muldoon.

“It’s about you and the captain. Says you are the devil’s lover,” Muldoon replies with a small chuckle and Silver cracks a smile that can shatter his face. He feels suddenly exposed by the silly gossip and he tries to appear unbothered.

“They can cluck their tongues all they wish. People need stories to make sense of the madness,” Silver says and quickly turns the amusement into eroded bitterness.

“It ain’t true…” Muldoon says and it sounds like a question. Silver narrows his eyes at him and feels as though his heart is attempting to escape his chest.

Muldoon’s boot slides next to his and he holds it there. It’s a simple connection and Silver keeps his eyes on him.

“It isn’t true _now_ ,” Silver answers truthfully and it feels as though he’s released an old anchor into the deep.

Muldoon’s eyes widen and he turns his cup without drinking it. It scrapes softly against the table and the pressure from Muldoon’s boot next to his grows.

“That’s your own business,” Muldoon says and Silver can sense a bit of envy.

Why would anyone in their right mind envy them? Whatever it was that still lies dormant between Captain Flint and him is a twisted gnarled darkness that should never be examined in the light of day.  

He wants to say that it isn’t something that he can forget. He wants to say that he was given an illusion of a man named James only to have it snatched away. He wants to say that he has too many ghosts haunting him.

Instead, he says, “Mrs. Barlow knew…I could see it in her eyes. She recognized her own doom and I can’t…I can’t stop thinking of that. I can’t stop wondering what that must have been like. To recognize that there is no way out and then accept it for a future she wouldn’t be apart of.”

Muldoon seems surprised by the sudden subject change and he pulls his boot back from his orbit. They each take a small drink to give their thoughts time to collect at the bottom of their skulls.

“No one knows the future,” Muldoon replies and Silver shakes his head.

“She knew.”

He understands it the way that Flint is making his grief real. His grief that burns men alive and the heat of it Silver can feel licking across his skin even now.

\--

After checking in again with Howell to gather more bleak news and after Silver spends a pathetic amount of time staring at the door to the Captains cabin, he agrees to meet Muldoon that night on the quarterdeck beneath the stars. The chill of the air traps itself against him creating its own cage for them.

He knew why Muldoon wanted to meet and Silver found a small comfort in that revelation. To be wanted but to be wanted for simply being himself.

They don’t sleep together. His leg isn’t healed enough to withstand extra assertion and the pain of it only allows fleeting moments of relief. Instead, Muldoon’s lips meet his by the light of the crescent moon.

It opens up new avenues within his mind for something to hold onto as if Muldoon is attempting to make himself into his tether.

He can tell by the way Muldoon pulls at the material of Silver’s shoulders that he’s checking to see if he’s real.

Most days Silver lacks the perception of being real. Most days he resigns himself to being a ghost for the crew but this night with the warmth of Muldoon’s mouth he feels brought back to the precipice.

It is both terrifying and melancholic to find himself in this position once again. The affection of another which he hasn’t felt since Flint’s hands were on his. He hates himself for thinking of him but he does.

He thinks of that time before the loss of his leg. He thinks of Flint wrapped inside him and the tenderness that encompassed it. It’s altogether too much.

He breaks his lips away and turns his face towards the stairway. The guilt tears a hole in his resolve. Muldoon rests his forehead on Silver’s shoulder and Silver closes his eyes as scalding tears release from his lashes to disappear into his beard.

“I’m sorry,” Silver speaks because he is. He is giving him a truth.

“Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for,” Muldoon says softly.

But there is and only Billy knew of it.

_Billy._

How many tethers did Silver need in order to gain a semblance of living?

Silver turns to Muldoon who is watching him patiently with a sad smile.

“I’d like to meet again tomorrow night,” Silver allows himself to say and Muldoon seems surprised by it. He nods his head quickly as the sadness fades from his expression.

“Tomorrow night,” Muldoon repeats.

Their smiles are shared between them like a secret. Muldoon is good for Silver. He brings him back to himself without tearing him apart first. Isn’t that something that Silver should want? That he should need?

But perhaps deep down in the places Silver rarely visits he wishes to be torn in two so that one piece may be held by those cruel hands.

Their affection comes easily even if Silver keeps most of himself hidden behind a myriad of walls. Muldoon is perceptive, more perceptive than the crew gives him credit for. He understands the battle that resides beneath in his bones.

The promise of the next night is never realized, however, because that next day is when they find Hallendale’s vessel marooned.

It is the dreaded beginning to a devastating chain of events and much like Mrs. Barlow, Silver felt it too like an entity on the horizon.

He began to understand the gravity of it. To understand the inevitable and when he makes the decision to board that vessel he feels possessed by fate.

\--

**Before**

\--

_A week after the destruction of Charles Town._

The light slips inside the room and rests on Flint’s shoulders like her fingers pressing down. He closes his eyes tightly unable to concentrate on the book that rests in his palms. _She_ will always be in everything. The way that _he_ will always be in all things.

The pieces of Flint that have been ripped away will never return and it’s in the silence that he is reminded of it.

He thinks of the feeling of her blood speckling against his face and simply breathing is a chore. She knew how to bring him back to himself. She knew how to help him find reason in his rage but now he is free-falling into the abyss without a tether.

“Captain…” a rasping voice requests and he snaps out his wretched grief.

Silver lies recovering from his leg in his quarters. He’s decided to give him however long he needs before he wishes to be seen by the crew. He seemed to have an aversion to it and he observed Silver’s growing fear of weakness.

He hadn’t let the confession of the gold sink in quite yet but it’s enough rage to direct elsewhere. There is a purpose in this aimlessness.

Flint grabs the wooden crutch Howell gave him from beside his desk and walks it over to Silver who blinks awake at him. His face is pale, covered in sweat and his hair sticks to his skin. He looks utterly miserable.

“Howell came to give you this,” Flint says and holds up the wooden crutch. Silver shakes his head while swallowing thickly.

“I don’t want it…” he breathes and Flint glares at him.

He isn’t his caretaker. He isn’t about to attempt a speech in convincing him. He sets it beside the bed and says, “when you are ready it is there.”

“I’m going to die here…on this ship…in this room,” Silver’s voice cracks from the confession and Flint keeps his features stoic against the vulnerability.

Silver seeks his face as if to observe his expression. He then temporarily closes his eyes against the harsh morning light that surrounds them. They are made into a shell of it. Flint wants to give him a piece of his grief because Silver has given him his without his permission.

“The men need their quartermaster,” Flint replies and he feels a swoop of a receding tide in his chest when those blue eyes meet his again.

All he could think of in that agony of silence is: _Not him too._

The meaning behind the thought is a dangerous discovery that he’s been able to hold back by a leash. Now, with Miranda lost to him he feels as though he could find the sea and never seek land again.

He wants to ask Silver something cruel to abate the sentiment. He wants to ask him about his involvement with the gold and if he is telling the whole truth of it. He wants to give himself someone to blame.

Instead, he watches Silver find sleep with the pained set of his expression to match his own.

“She knew…” Silver whispers and Flint tilts his head in confusion.

“Who?”

But there is no answer. Only the soft intake of breath.

\--

**Present**

\--

_‘we die..’_

It was a trap.

_‘…alone’_

The Hunter flying the British colors is gaining on them. Flint slides the maps off of his desk as if the action is the same as clearing his thoughts.

He thinks of that pathetic Captain Hallendale chained and alone. He thinks of the dignity lost and the weakness afforded. He thinks of his journal as if they were messages to him in his last dying moments.

_‘we die alone..’_

He sees Miranda’s face lying across from his, her eyes open without any light to them. She had left him and he saw her leave.

He wanted to scream into the cannon fire _‘come back’_ but what light could be conjured from all that death?

He hears the door to the cabin open and the tell-tale tapping of Silver’s boot. He wants to hate that sound. He wants to crumble it inside him like those towns but he can’t shake it away. The sound of it haunts him as much as those faces do.

“Hallendale took his own life?” Silver asks and Flint flinches from the topic. He expected Silver to bring him news of the Hunter but they had none for now. All there is to do is wait for it to gain on them.

“We die alone,” Flint announces and turns to face him. Silver steps back from his blunt comment and Flint observes with satisfaction at the sadness he finds there.

Silver ignores the path of this conversation and presents a new one, “I’m guessing you are coming up with a plan for this mess?”

“The mess you started?” Flint snaps and Silver flinches but attempts to hide the pain from the lash of his words.

“How the fuck was I to know that it was a trap?”

It’s a weak excuse and it somehow feels like a lie.

“Whatever happens from this point forward rests on your shoulders. The blood is on both of our hands,” Flint declares cruelly, and he feels his chest constrict. He can’t keep the burden for himself.

He watches the sadness in Silver’s eyes evolve into an archaic suppressed anger and is grateful for it. It’s like a gift to him and he gladly feeds the flames growing between them even if it destroys them both.

“What happened to her?” The soft seethe of Silver’s voice sets him reeling off an edge unprepared.

He wishes to feign confusion but the _‘her’_ in his words rings like a clear bell. The way the question is presented gives Flint pause. Had Silver been tormented by such a thing? Why?

“Get out.”

It is all Flint can manage because he is on a very thin line of losing his composure.

“We spoke on the journey to Charles Town. I wanted…to know her,” Silver admits and it is all Flint needs to rage towards Silver like a tempest as he pushes them both forcefully against the wall. Books topple downwards beside them and the trinkets rattle. Silver is wild-eyed but there is no terror for Flint to be found. It infuriates him.

“Do not speak of her again,” Flint sneers with a growl. Their bodies are pressed tightly against one another. It’s the closest either of them has been since _that_ night. He can see the blue of Silver’s eyes clearly as if snatched from memory. The heat of him disorients him. Their faces are an inch apart as if awaiting instruction from the darkness shared.

Silver’s voice wavers, “she knew..”

Flint’s fury is a visage that slips away at the quietness of those words. Silver’s tone is like a collapsing bridge in the distance. He hears the crumbling of stone and rips himself away from the proximity of him.

He pleads softly broken, “please leave.”

There is a quiet pause and he hopes Silver doesn’t speak again because if he did then Flint would collapse into the wood of the ship. Instead, Silver complies. The latch of the door presents him with nothing more than weighted silence. There is no relief from Silver’s presence lost and to understand that meaning is something Flint still fights against with his teeth, his fists, his blade.

What he’s come to realize in that short exchange is that Silver genuinely developed a fondness for Miranda in their journey across dark seas. Could this possibly mean they can share grief beyond the blood? To share grief is something he has become accustomed to and something he hoped would never present itself again. He is standing inside the mouth of the underworld.

He can feel a tempest on the horizon like a beast in his periphery lying in wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dark times ahead for Silver. I hope you are enjoying this! Thank you :)


	5. Underworld

Whispers linger in Billy’s mind of old conversations long lost. He hoards them like reminders.

He thinks of Gates inability to see the inevitable and now, Silver is headed down that funnel of darkness. Billy's always stood at the edge of Flint’s madness. He is close enough to be a witness to it but not to succumb to its pull.

He hears Silver’s voice ricochet a repetitive reminder within the loud gale above him _‘He had me there. And that is not supposed to happen.’_

Flint is their deliverer and no matter who was chasing them they’d be headed for the same storm. There will always be a storm. A new form of England to destroy or to clutch in his palm and pretend they are owed freedom from it.

He wonders if Flint’s shackles are of his own making? If he can simply slip from the binds he rails against if he truly desired to?

How many more men would have to die for him? How many more men will be taken in by his false prophecies?

Silver’s concerned features come into focus in front of him with the wind whipping his dark wet hair across his face. He’s pale but the dark circles under his eyes are abating. Silver is growing used to the pain. Billy can sense the shift of acceptance.

He’s saying something to him over the wind and the sound comes rushing back with a raucous howl, “Billy!”

Silver studies Billy's face and he thinks his throat is stuck on another string of a sentence that will never be uttered.

Billy’s never been one to latch on to an individual or the idea of an individual. He works in packs, in groups like hunters but Silver is different. He holds a future within him that could possibly be slain by Flint’s will. It is the first time he wishes to watch something flourish.

“I’ll be below with Muldoon! Keep the men safe!” Silver calls and Billy watches him turn to limp away by using the ropes against the biting wind.

He doesn’t know when the change occurred in him, when he went from apprehension towards Silver’s presence to seeking it out but it’s a permeant one.

His thoughts are usually clear and the logic never gets in the way but this time there is fog in his skull.

He saw Silver and Muldoon on the quarterdeck together and slipped away as their mouths met. His initial reaction was to be relieved that at least there is a contentment in this stark bleakness but then after the discovery of Hallendale’s vessel the bitterness set in.

He isn’t exactly sure where it came from. It could have been a culmination of anger towards Flint’s blatant disregard, to Silver’s unwavering tie to their mad captain or to the innocence of his blossoming connection with Muldoon.

It was only inevitable that Billy would find himself in a trap, but is it a trap?

The bitterness claims that it is a trap but all at once he feels a new perspective growing amongst them all.

He will be the tool he’s always been but Silver is already destined for something beyond them. It shouldn’t cut the way it does but the pain is muffled enough to put it away.

\--

Below the deck, as they reach the beginnings of the storm, Muldoon and Silver stood in front of one another. The pain etched like a brand in his bones burns to the surface once again. He leans on the support beam and Muldoon nears him.

“I can do this if it ain’t—”

Silver holds up his hand to interrupt him, “I am doing this. We are doing this. Together.”

Muldoon hesitantly reaches out and rests his palm on Silver’s shoulder. He doesn’t push him away, he leans into it and meets those kind eyes.

Their foreheads touch and Silver can feel the pain begin to fade away. The wave of it is receding.

“Know this ain’t pity….I’m not your caretaker or anythin’. You and me, we….” Muldoon halts his speech and Silver moves forward connecting their lips in soft understanding.

He feels the light caress of Muldoon’s palm across his cheek and he memorizes the feel of the rough pads of his fingers. He can have this, can’t he? A small reprieve in this hell?

Flint’s destructive presence looms in the back of his mind but he can shut him out for now. He is allowed to have some peace even if their captain refuses it.

Muldoon is kind with his lips and the small flick of his tongue against his. He is asking things without speaking, without taking. He wants Silver for who he is. He doesn’t need a tool. He doesn’t need a channel to wade through. He may not dive into Silver’s thoughts but he sees enough. There are still things to see on the surface of his current.

Their lips part and Silver leans into him, pressing him in an embrace. He sets his face on Muldoon’s shoulder and listens to their breathing in tandem.

“Flint don’t deserve ya.”

Muldoon’s words are gentle. Silver pulls back to search his face, “It’s not about what is deserved.”

He watches Muldoon’s dark eyes to realize he’s opening himself up further to a new wound but he allows it. The vulnerability is accepted as a gift.

Muldoon parts his lips to speak and then the ship shakes jarring them both into a tumble.

\--

Billy could drown high above the sea on the whipping mast. The rain is heavy enough to suffocate and he’s soaked from being nearly thrown in the waves. His fingers ache from clawing at the torn material.

The image of the men that Flint cut loose replays in his mind like shadows and he wonders if their broken bodies meant freedom to him as well. Did death bring Flint peace?

He watched his momentary relief but it could have been misconstrued. He is a serpent all on his own and he saw the veil lift.

Flint is terrifyingly formidable against the storm and Billy can’t help but view it as a fortune teller. As if this whole dreaded slow drowning is a warning for what’s to come.

Billy calls to the men like a lost song and pleads with them to abandon their posts to join him below the deck. There is nothing that can be done now except to ride out the storm. If they remain above collapsing in the waves then they will perish.

Dooley greets him when he jumps down onto the flooded deck and he uses the ropes that remain above for support.

“Fetch Silver and Muldoon to bring them up to the crew quarters!” Billy yells above the roar.

Dooley’s hair is plastered to his face as he nods before fumbling his way inside. He worries that the bottom of the ship has flooded and the urge to stalk across the sleeping quarters towards the latch overtakes him but that isn’t his priority. The men as a whole are his priority.

That is what he tells himself.

Flint is gripping the wheel with an untamed ferocity as Billy nearly slips sideways when the ship tilts with a loud crack.

“Captain!”

Flint ignores Billy’s voice and latches himself like a permeant fixture to the wheel. He glares at the dark funnels in the distance against the lightning.

“Captain! We must ride this out together now!” Billy’s attempts are futile. He doesn’t hear him, he never truly has. He doesn’t hear anyone but his own demons. He wonders how loud they scream now.

He brought them here to the edge of the world but they might as well be ghosts to him.

Billy grips the railing as seawater covers his form like a waterfall when he enters the crew quarters down below. He can hear the surrounding men yelling and witness the chaos of the slick slide of blood. There’s a dead man beside the stairs with a head wound and another sits beside him with a cloth held in his shaking palms.

He catches Silver’s eyes from across the crowd of men with their own brand of fear. Silver is hunched over holding onto the rope and he’s staring at Billy with a mixture of devastated expectancy.

He nears him quickly fighting against the urge to topple with the roll of the ship.

“Dobbs close the hatch!” He orders because at least it may buy them a moment's peace if they are to be torn to shreds by the angry wind.

Silver is searching behind him for a specific dark soul and Billy clings to the rope beside him looking him over for any injury.

“Where’s the Captain?!” Is the first thing Silver yells and the wild desperation sets him apart.

“He’s up top, he wouldn’t listen to me.”

Billy’s words sink into Silver like his own anchor and he watches as Silver crumples onto the swinging cot. The ship jerks and suddenly Silver is bucked off. He rolls along the ground scrambling for a grip with a look of someone succumbing to a finality.

Billy moves quick and holds out his hand for Silver to refuse but to his surprise he takes it, pulling himself upright enough to sit against the wall. There’s a moment's hesitation and the sight of fresh grief mars Silver’s expression. He looks more broken than he ever has.

Billy leans down and sits against the wall beside him as the Walrus turns and their shoulders come together. Neither one of them moves from the others space. Silver is too in tune with his own thoughts plaguing him.

“…where is Muldoon?” Billy asks quietly but he understands already.

Silver is trembling. His hands are shaking against his thighs and he shuts his eyes tight. Tears like rainwater stain his cheeks.

“He’s dead.”

Silver bluntly admits and then the devastation falls away from his form becoming something numb, something bred in stoicism.

“Jesus…” Billy breathes and looks out to the crew before him, struggling and dying amongst them. He tries to weigh the losses as a whole but the pain he’s gathering from Silver teeters the balance.

“Please get Flint, Billy. Bring him in here. Whatever it is you have to do. I can’t do it myself, so, I am asking you to please get him out of that storm. He will drown.” Silver is turned towards him with a shining plea in his eyes and Billy feels a churning nameless tug against his ribs.

A dark part of him wishes to deny Silver, to let Flint drown in his own misery but he is their captain and they’ve already lost enough.

Out in the howling downpour, Dooley and Billy traverse the small space across the deck to the unoccupied wheel. Flint lies unconscious with a rope tied around his waste to anchor him. Seawater swallows his limp body and Billy turns him on his side as the ship slams into a ferocious wave.

They are like dark giants surrounding their tiny vessel, lying in wait with their claws outstretched.

He wonders for a split second of peace if Flint has finally been vanquished but it’s not long before he coughs slosh against the deck as Dooley and Billy pull him to the fragile safety of below.

\--

There will always be moments when Silver feels the grip of Muldoon’s hand and the death throes that followed it. There will always be moments when he hears his voice whispered in his ear. Sometimes he will give Silver kindness, sometimes it will be Silver’s own self-hating cruelty, and sometimes he will never make out the words.

The beast of the storm itself retreats back into hiding fairly quickly taking the rain with it as well as the wind. Although they are greeted with the bright sun, the ship floats uselessly in glass water.

They’ve entered the Doldrums.

Silver covers Muldoon’s pale face with the cloth he is wrapped in and rests his hand on his chest. He leans his ear down as if to listen for a heartbeat that isn’t there any longer.

The other crewmen are too busy with the realization that they are becalmed to pay anything else much mind.

He is hollow driftwood, the color has left him, he’s already losing grip on the last rungs of the ladder that’s keeping him from falling back into the below. The below is almost a comfort now. This underworld of theirs will always take. Perhaps the cruelty has marked him with a debt. How much more must be paid?

The door to the room softly opens and he hears Billy’s heavy boots from behind him. He feels him stand beside him with the soft brush of fabric against his arm. He doesn’t move away. He can’t bring himself to climb back into a hole alone again.

“Silver…” Billy begins and he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to speak of this, even if it is lying right in front of him.

“Is Flint awake?” He askes instead because concentrating on Flint is grounding even in his selfish chaotic destruction.

“He hasn’t woken yet. All we can do is wait.”

There’s a deep silence that settles between them and Silver stares at Muldoon’s wrapped feet. He doesn’t recognize this form. Another body to send home, into the deep.

Where do they all go? If this is the underworld?

“Have you said goodbye?” Billy asks and he sounds gentle. His kindness doesn’t feel deserved. He wants him to tear him open the way Flint would. He wants to be blamed.

“I lost that chance when he drowned.”

“It isn’t your—”

Silver interrupts, “it is my fault. If I was whole then he may still be alive. I would have had the strength.”

“If you were whole, then he would have perished in Charles Town. You do realize that, don’t you?” Billy’s sigh releases a bit of the burden.

“Then he was destined to die either way. To drown.”

Silver sounds cruel in his abruptness but he’s spiraling and these words are the only thing keeping him here. He doesn’t understand how Billy became the person he can release himself to but he has. Through his veil of agony.

“Do you want to be there when we send him into the sea?” Billy asks and Silver wants to deny it. He wants to hide in this place once again where he nearly died from infection.

“Yes.” Is all he is able to manage. He owed Muldoon that much. He cannot turn away.

The sun is hot on his skin when he leaves the confines of the room. It doesn’t grant them relief.

As he watches his body meet the water a moment later, he apologizes to the windless air. He is sorry he could not be what Muldoon needed. He is sorry that his heart is fixated on the dark remorseless creature that created this hell. He is sorry that he could not offer Muldoon the love he deserved.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers but he is unsure if it rings true for no one hears it and if they did they wouldn’t quite understand it. It is not an apology to a dead man but to all the others that will be made in the wake of their bond.

Is he like Flint then? Was he trying to be good for the men? A quartermaster they need but may never attain?

The thought occurred to him that night that it might be better to set fire to the ship and jump into the sea. It may save them the trouble of what’s to come because he feels it like a mountain of grief. It piles like ash does. It collects heavy in his lungs.

That night without a wind to caress his face he limps up to the quarterdeck where he shared a simple connection with Muldoon. He thinks on fleeting memories and how their time together was a grain of sand in the scheme of it.

Billy is already standing at the edge as if he knew Silver would travel here to gain some sense of all of this.

He thinks about Billy abstractly then, that perhaps he is a grain too. That he will look back at this moment in the future and think where did things go wrong? What did we become?

They’re Becoming. They are crawling from their shells whether they are ready to or not.

“Worried I’ll jump from the ledge?” Silver asks bitterly and Billy doesn’t have a smile for him. He’s unamused.

“The crew needs their quartermaster.”

It rings like a distant bell made from a mirage.

Silver leans over the lip of wood and says, “we’re dying.”

“There is still time. We must organize the rations and divide it evenly amongst the men.”

They stare at one another in the dark and Billy has a question he doesn’t voice. Silver doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t like the intrusion but he grants him permission into his mind all the same.

“I think Muldoon knew too, maybe not in the way that Mrs. Barlow knew but their eyes held that acceptance. Mrs. Barlow was a beacon against it, she stood taller than I ever could and Muldoon was made of its sadness. He gave some of it to me and I don’t think I can separate from it.”

“Neither of them knew the future, Silver. The guilt is easier to carry then grief but there is nothing you could have done.”

“Why is the guilt easier?” Silver asks because he needs to drown out the splashing and thrashing.

“It gives what happened a purpose when there isn’t any.”

The words themselves are harsh but Billy’s tone suggests an empathic awareness that holds him prisoner.

It isn’t long before they say their silent goodnights to one another and he watches the dark still sea like a mocking vision. 

\--

Billy doesn’t sleep that night. He’s never found sleep easy not like the other men. He can lie down in a cot and shut his eyes but more often than not he rarely finds an escape from the snores or the flickering candles. His mind is too heavy.

He thinks of Silver’s grief so easily bottled up for the crew to sample like rum. He’s absorbed it the way that he’s let him. The guilt they all share is a burden and he wonders if Flint will understand even if he doesn’t speak on it.

Does he realize that he is attempting to be their God? They are all scrambling to please him. To obey him, to stand in awe of him. He is the old world itself, the world in which civilization is chasing. He can’t run forever.

As Billy slips into Flint’s quarters and sits in the chair by his desk, he stares at his sleeping form. He doesn’t look like the villain he is attempting to paint himself in this light. He looks like a broken man.

Billy thinks of the dead created in its wake. He thinks of the guilt that was unwarranted but still followed and how it’s lost to him now. Guilt is easier because it can be fleeting if one lets it be. Guilt is easier because it has a name, the name they give themselves.

Guilt is easier because he realizes that without it they would all be _him_.

He listens to the soft intake of breath and thinks of daggers. There’s a dark moment which he doesn’t entertain a certain thought further and he lets the monster sleep on. Later, he knows he will wish he could have taken the opportunity to release them from his thrall.

He’s used to thinking in packs but this time he lets a thought stick in his mind. He imagines the freedom he wishes to afford Silver; to afford them both.

He thinks one must always have a hidden plan when the original is eroding like a mudslide.

When Flint wakes at the push of day, Billy greets him with a heavy heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next more becalming woes! I hope you are are enjoying this! Thank you for reading :)


	6. Reprieve

Day 7

The Doldrums

\--

Flint understands with a choreographed numbness that they are dying.

They had to cut the men’s rations for the first time two days ago. The men look at him as if he is famine come alive, breathing across the deck. He will be their famine if need be. He will be that which they cling to, to blame. He is good at molding himself into a symbol that men fear because they see themselves inside it.

Silver’s words haunt him. They’ve haunted him ever since he spoke them like a conjuration.

_She knew._

He thinks about Miranda leading him to a place she knew would be her death and he can’t fathom such a devastation. He thinks of her sitting alone in that house in Nassau with her fingers lingering over the piano keys.

_I recognize you._

He’d recognize her no matter what form she took. Whether it be a phantom of a nightmare or the soft caress that wakes him in the morning; a memory dragged to the surface that was buried.

He is burying her with the dirt left inside him.

His only remaining connection with her may very well be John Silver.

He spots him limping on the deck with his boot that he’s grown used to and he tries to think of him in terms of commodities. He tries to detach himself but there is always something else beneath.

Billy’s voice resounds from behind him, “Captain we—”

“No.”

He wasn’t in the mood to discuss provisions and he leaves without a glance in his direction.

He watches Silver disappear in the crew quarters and he follows after him. The anger needs to be given a conduit. He’s already set fire to the beginnings of the new world.

At the bottom of the stairs, he observes Silver struggling with the rope as he heads for his nondescript cot. He steps by a few sleeping men as Silver slowly lowers himself onto the material with a grunt.

Flint towers above him casting a shadow over his tired frame and Silver looks up at him startled by his sudden presence. He’s pale, thinning in the face.

“Why the fuck did you speak with her?” Flint’s voice is loud and it startles some of the occupants that curiously peer in his direction. He didn’t want to share this connection with him. She’s his to bear, not Silver’s.

Silver’s face falls and contorts into a cringe before he looks away from him to stare towards the other cots that rocked in silence.

“She was….a mystery to me.”

“I specifically asked that the crew leave her and Abigail be.”

Silver’s eyes meet his again, looking above at him with a vulnerability he isn’t prepared for. It strikes him all at once like a bullet trapped in his chest cavity.

“You are a mystery to me,” Silver says.

Flint knows Silver began speaking with Miranda because he wished to glean what he could from her.

“You were trying to manipulate her..” Flint nearly snarls but holds back the will to lash out.

“You knew her well, Captain. She couldn’t be manipulated. We were merely….it was like we were equals,” Silver admits and he seems confused by the confession.

“You mistook her kindness for likeness,” Flint is vicious but Silver doesn’t turn away or retreat.

“Is this your way of asking what we spoke about? She mentioned London.” Silver lets it hang in the air on purpose and serves to only provoke him into a rage.

“You’re a liar, Mr. Silver.”

“She spoke of music, of playing music and the sound of it that absorbed in the walls. She spoke of the difference in sound while in Nassau and the hollowness of it.”

Flint recognizes the shine in Silver’s eyes. He continues and Flint can’t stand to listen to the soft cadence of his voice, “she said something to me and I’ve recited it since…she said: ‘Confine yourself to the present’”

The rage burning beneath his skin suddenly snuffs out and only the black smoke of it is left inside him. He’s rung out like a cloth left to dry too long in the hot sun. He can’t let himself crumble in front of Silver, not now.

Flint swallows as he blinks away from him and turns to step away. He desires for Silver to stop him, to hold him here to this moment but Silver says nothing. He lets him go.

\--

Silver listens to the sound of those boots retreating. Those boots he could recognize anywhere and he turns to see his silhouette step up into the light, leaving Silver in the dark once again.

It’s strange to understand that no matter what kind of company Flint is he feels less alone when he is in his presence. He looks at him and they see the other.

They see what’s hidden and Silver doesn’t know what to do with his heart when it furiously pounds to be released. To be released from the hold that Captain Flint has over him.

He’ll make beasts out of all of them and there is nothing he can do to stop it but succumb.

It’s when he finds sleep that the notion that Flint conjured the storm out of his grief becomes more plausible. The beginnings of delirium sets in and he recognizes the irrational belief but he can’t seem to find another explanation for the current hell.

He dreams of Muldoon after that, floating in the sea beside him unable to speak. He blinks at Silver as he sinks beneath the waves and his hand releases from his like a ghost. He becomes the sea.

He falls out of his cot hitting the floor as he wakes and rolls over blurry eyed at the shape above him, like a foreshadowing. 

“Silver,” the muffled voice says and he resembles Muldoon for a moment, reaching out to him and he holds out his hand to have it meet a warm palm. He’s pulled from the ground and stumbles into the broad chest. He finally looks up to see Billy’s face form into view.

“You’re always there when I fall.”

Silver’s voice is softer than needs it to be and his chest tightens when he notices the smallest hint of a smile on Billy’s lips. Billy doesn’t smile often and when he does it usually vanishes too quick for anyone to take notice but Silver catalogs it. He doesn’t know why but he memorizes the features that are given to him. He realizes how close they are, that he’s gripping onto Billy’s arm for support. Billy makes no note of it. He’s never been one to judge unless it is something that brings harm to the men.

Is this bringing harm?

Perhaps, but Silver needs an outlet from the grief. He needs to not think of Flint’s shape leaving him in the dark willingly.

“You should sleep more, Silver.”

Billy’s encouragement causes him to step back out of the close warmth.

“You can’t sleep? Why are you here?” Silver questions.

“We’re starving and we must come up with a better plan for the rations but Flint won’t listen.”

Billy studies Silver’s stature but he doesn’t look at his boot. He often doesn’t as if he sees beyond it, not out of politeness but honesty.

“You are checking up on me.” Silver surmises because he doesn’t wish to speak of Flint.

Billy crosses his arms and looks towards the flickering waxy candles that drip against the wood.  

“After Muldoon, I suspected it would take its toll.”

Silver gathers from the apprehension that Billy knew. He somehow knew about Muldoon and him. Silver’s safety net of a subject change falters and crumbles away.

He limps back into Billy’s space again and he doesn’t back down from the scrutiny. He meets that curious gaze.

“You knew…” Silver whispers and the ship is eerily still. There’s a creak of a boot from far off and one of the men coughs against his cot.

“He was a good man.”

 _He was good for you_ , he hears from the silence that follows even if Billy doesn’t speak it.

Silver reaches out to Billy, palm up and nearly touches him as he says, “I felt him leave us. I still feel the echoes of it like a torment. No one seems to give a damn. They don’t understand.”

Billy’s face is placid but warm in the low light and Silver despises himself for finding solace in it. In his presence. It is different than Muldoon, different than Flint. He’s an outlier like Silver except he operates for the welfare of the group rather than himself. Which at first Silver suspected would have him killed but the resilience is something to respect.

He is still resting on the periphery looking in as Silver is and always will remain.

“You understand.” Silver continues and Billy shifts his weight but doesn’t step closer.

“Muldoon wouldn’t want your guilt, Silver. Do what you have to but the men need you present. We must stay focused.”

The wording is to close off any further conversation and he wants to tell Billy that he feels as though he is on the verge of slipping into madness but leaves it for now. Leaves it for his sleep.

\--

Day 14

\--

On this day Billy stands on the deck in the hot sun that encapsulates his cracked skin and watches one of the crewmen splash about in the sea heading for a land mass that isn’t there. 

Billy discovered too late that the crewman had been consuming seawater and it drove him to a quicker delirium.

Silver stands apprehensively beside him watching the madness in front of them with a crumbling veneer of calm.

“He’s going to drown,” Silver rasps and Billy takes stock of his heart rate, the weakness in his limbs. He thinks of Muldoon which he suspects is at the forefront of Silver’s thoughts.

There’s a moment of dead silence amongst the crew that claims him and steals away the small rationed hope they all had left. There isn’t a sway of a wind to greet them, no breeze to calm the heat. It is a suffocating spiral.

Flint has been locked in his quarters for a day screaming at himself in the dark or at another of his demons. He doesn’t dare approach the Captain’s cabin. They haven’t spoken since they decided to divide the men’s rations in order of importance to the crew.

“Prepare a launch..” Billy calls.

The men echo the command and Silver glances at him, his parched lips in a grimace.

“I’ll go,” Silver relays and Billy shakes his head.

“There’s no need, stay with the men.”

“I need to do this, Billy.”

Billy understands his need to fill the hole the guilt has left behind and he should refuse. Silver is the Quartermaster, he is more important than Billy is to the ship. The old Billy would have been pragmatic but this one, in this hell with Silver, nods once in understanding. Silver limps by him with a ghost of a touch.

He watches moments later as Silver rows himself towards the splashing arms of the delirious swimmer. He wonders when things began to change. It is a daily haunting of thought.

Billy remembers the light that didn’t reach Silver’s eyes when he told him about the Quartermaster dilemma when they were prisoners of Vane’s. He thinks something sparked then inside him. He saw Silver for a moment, a wall had been brought down. He hadn’t wanted this.

Billy understood then and he understands it most of all now.

“Why did you let him go?” DeGroot’s disgruntled tone rests by his ear.

“This is—” Billy halts his speech when one of the men yell abruptly. He turns his attention back to the rowboat and sees that Silver reached the crewman.

For a moment Billy thinks Silver has convinced him because he’s holding out his hand but the crewman suddenly yanks Silver forward out of the boat with a wail.

“He’s lost his goddamn mind!” DeGroot yells.  

Silver thrashes above the water but Billy suspects the boot is weighing him down and he soon disappears into the deep.

“Jesus Christ….Degroot keep the men in check,” Billy orders.

“Now you are to dive into the sea too?”

Billy ignores DeGroot’s inquiry of doubt and quickly pulls off his boots. The weakened limpness in his limbs takes on a new energy as he dives immediately into the sea.

He swims fast through the still crystal water and spots the crewman splashing far ahead of him, still aimlessly battling for an imaginary landmass but Billy’s concern lies with Silver.

It should scare him that his philosophy is crumbling like chipping an old wall. That the good of the whole is worth a few. He’s not sure what this means any longer. He’s not a hero, he’s a murderer, a pirate, only loyalty to the men. The men as a whole. Yet, Silver somehow felt like the whole. As if he carried the entirety of the crew on his shoulders. Saving him feels as though he is saving them all but he wondered if it was his delirium setting in as well.

He dives under beside the rowboat and swims towards where the darkness meets the light, where he can see the blurry figure sinking into the depths below.

\--

In that deep dark where Silver is finally headed, he sees dark eyes reflecting a plea and he drowns in them.

Miranda’s voice is a whisper, “James.”

He latches himself to that name even if it isn’t his. He wraps himself around the shadow of it and wonders if he’s becoming another phantom to speak to Flint in his sleep.

There’s sudden brightness and then the vague awareness of pain once more, throbbing up his thigh like he’s been set on fire. He feels heavy, wet, weighed down and he rolls over coughing up seawater onto a flat wood surface.

There’s a hand resting on his shoulder and when he rolls over again. He blinks against the brightness of the sky as Billy’s face comes into focus above him. He observes the dark circles under his eyes and the relief in his features.

He feels found out, exposed. The failure marking him yet again.

“Why did you bring me back?” Silver lets the words tumble out and he watches Billy’s face squint at him with a thought he’ll never voice. He doesn’t want an answer for it and Billy seems to understand.

They were in the rowboat. He can feel it rocking softly and he feels like tumbling back into the water beneath but he remains lying against the wood. He wants to become the wood, lie supine and find some use within himself.

The lack of food and water is beginning to wreak havoc of his self-hatred. It amplifies his failures in his mind like lanterns.

“Edgar, the crewman is alive. I had to force him into the boat and knock him on the head but he’s alive.” Billy attempts to reassure and Silver closes his eyes.

It was selfish to think he wanted to be the one to save him. It wouldn’t have been an answer for his guilt, it wouldn’t have lessened the grief. It wasn’t Muldoon he was trying to save.

He loses consciousness again and like a blink, it is dark once more. He is out of the sun and back on the vessel that Charon seems to crew. He blinks at the dark ceiling that he despises and realizes he is in Howell’s examination room. Howell hovers above him with his stoic expression and says, “you’ve ruptured some of the tissue that was in the process of healing. I suggest a days rest is in order unless you wish for me to cut off more.”

He steps out of view and Silver whispers a curse that he knows he can hear. The throbbing pain is nothing new, even if it is heightened by his recklessness.

“You must care for yourself, Mr. Silver.”

Howell’s voice leaves him as the door shuts and he feels a tear leak out of the corner of his eye. He startles when hears the creaking of a chair not realizing the room is still occupied. He recognizes the gait as Billy’s.

He wonders how many times he will peer up at that face from in his misery. When he comes into view Silver asks, “have you spoken with Flint?”

“Yes, more cuts in the rations that are necessary. We aren’t drifting fast enough.”

Billy’s never been one to hide the truth from him even if it dire. He didn’t believe in coddling and yet here he was, sitting in the dark waiting to speak to him.

“Why are you here? To tell me this news?” Silver asks and he watches Billy’s hesitation.

“You nearly died. I am checking on the Quartermaster.”

Silver finds comfort in those eyes above him and the thought harbors an opportunity. 

“I’m not going to thank you, Billy. I can’t.”

Billy doesn’t seem offended by it, there’s a harmless pity there that he accepts. He accepted it when this whole venture into hell began.

“I will let you rest,” he says quietly but doesn’t turn to leave right away. He eyes Silver who appears contemplative.

“I want…a way out..” Silver admits and Billy tilts his head at him with slight frustration.

“Silver…I don’t—”

“Not death. Something else. A temporary…peace. The sorrow, the guilt, the grief, it is constant. It is suffocating, it is tearing its way through our livelihood.”

Billy leans against the uncomfortable godforsaken table he’s lies on and asks, “where is this peace? How is it attainable then? For the whole crew?”

Silver presses his lips together to breath through the wave of dulled agony that his severed limb gifts him without remorse.

“For you and I.”

He watches the confusion paint itself across Billy’s expression like it’s evolving.

“I don’t understand.” Billy’s voice is quiet.

Silver has done this before. He’s picked someone that he trusts enough and they attempt to find release from one another. He had chosen Muldoon for such a task but he is lost to him and now part of his torment.

He doesn’t wish to think of Flint’s skin or his lips on his. However much time has been left behind them he still remembers that night like an acorn that rests in his skull that he can never rid himself of. His very own seed that rattles in his thoughts.

Silver doesn’t give a damn about politeness now, not now.

“We give ourselves reprieve. You care enough and I…do trust you.”

He watches Billy’s realization form when he opens his mouth on a word, only to shut it once again. The pity grows in the deep pit of his sincere eyes and Silver feels disgusted by it. That is not what he wishes for.

“Forget it.”

“I’m not sure if there’s—” Billy begins.

“Please leave.”

Billy sighs and remains hovering directly above like a giant. He can feel the room collapsing in on him, he’s powerless to it and his leg is relentless in its pursuit to torture him.

Silver snaps, “Get out.”

“What would it entail?” 

Billy's always been apathetic to his anger. He's had plenty of practice from Flint. 

“I don’t want your pity,” Silver growls.

“For fuck's sake…it’s concern, not pity. You’ve yet to master the difference.”

Billy’s voice bounces around the room like an admittance and Silver stares up at him in a shaky attempt to build more walls but he’s run out of resources. There is no more he can build. He’s a half-finished skeleton, half a man, half hope.

“Then you consider it?” Silver asks coolly because this is much like a business contract. They would make a deal and it would run until it ends.  Nothing beyond what Silver deems too far, too close, too long.

“You’ve not had a proper meal in days,” Billy says and steps from view. He feels suddenly blind. He didn’t realize how much he relied on his facial expressions.

“I am clear headed, Billy.” Silver states.

He can feel him retreating, leaving him in the dark as Flint did and he closes his eyes. He waits for the sound of the door shutting but it doesn’t come.

Billy's voice breaks up the silence resting in wait within his thoughts. “Then it is like huddling close to keep warm for the winter? To you, it is a necessity.”

Silver wonders idly if Billy simply lacks the experience. “Have you been with another?”

The conversation has kept the burn of his leg at bay, it’s kept him focused on something trivial. The collapsing of his bridge of thoughts have halted.

He hears the door click open then and Silver turns away towards the shadows displayed from the single candle.

“Get some rest. We’ll discuss this later.”

Silver is surprised by the wording as the door quietly shuts to leave him alone with his thoughts. Even if he had dismissed it, it would simply mean he’d search for another to wrap his thoughts around, to mask his darkness. It is what he’s always done.

He’s survived by distraction and opportunity. He hasn’t abandoned his code completely yet for his new persona.

Silver admittedly craved a form of connection, whether it be through affection or simply two strangers in the night.

Without the grounding, he will go mad much like Edgar, thrashing in the waves searching for an island that doesn’t exist.

He doesn’t think of Flint when he closes his eyes. He doesn’t think of the closing of that door which feels like so long ago. He buries it deeper beneath the bone where he can’t search it out any longer.

Billy could grant him reprieve from it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next Billy and Silver make a deal as Flint spirals! I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading :)


End file.
